


Familiarity Breeds Resentment

by Aerlalaith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Allergies, Cats, Crack, Dean Has Allergies, Familiars, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hunters & Hunting, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Sort of? - Freeform, Witch Dean, Witches, witch!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:49:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is being stalked by a black cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiarity Breeds Resentment

When Dean stumbled across the black cat for the first time, he didn’t really pay much attention. To be fair, he was in the midst of what was turning out to be a truly odious solo hunt, nursing what was probably a broken rib, while Sam was down for the count, all drugged up to his gills back in the motel room.  
   
He did startle a little when the vampire chasing him seemed to trip over an extra-large shadow twining between its ankles, but then Dean was swinging a machete, and the final head of a remarkably shitty evening was thunking to the dusty ground in a gory _splat_ , and the issue quickly became moot.  
   
With Sam being the kind of asshole who preferred to stay in bed to whine over his weak stomach and probable food poisoning, Dean was forced to salt and burn the bodies himself, an all night endeavor that left him filthy and exhausted.  
   
He saw the cat properly for the first time then: its long black fur was fluffed out against the evening chill and it regarded him with bright green eyes from its perch atop one of the cracked granite headstones littering the Ardmore cemetery.  
   
Dean wouldn’t necessarily have called himself a _superstitious_ man—at least, not as far as superstitions he couldn’t kill were concerned—but the sight of a black cat at night alone with him in the cemetery, seemed like the sort of sign of impending supernatural activity that Dean would have been an idiot to ignore. He’d had quite enough ‘supernatural activity’ to last him the evening, thank you very much, so he frowned at the cat, waving his hand in a shooing motion.  
   
“Go away,” he said.  
   
The cat swished its tail, remaining otherwise immobile.  
   
Dean huffed at it, scowling. When the cat did nothing but continue to stare, Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to shoveling dirt over the pile of vampire ashes. So preoccupied with his task was he, that he failed to notice his unwanted companion jumping off the gravestone and sauntering over to casually press itself against his calf, fur just tickling the skin where the leg of his jeans had ridden up.  
   
At the unexpected touch, Dean let out a yelp that was really a small scream, his body suddenly thrumming with energy and adrenaline—the way bodies were wont to do, in fact, after they had been unexpectedly accosted by small mammals in graveyards, just after spending the night hunting down vampires.  
   
“Son of a bitch,” Dean swore, after he had calmed his racing heart. He leaned against the shovel for support, suddenly very glad that Sam wasn’t with him. “You asshole!” And then his eyes widened. And then he sneezed. “Dick,” he managed after a moment, pointing at the cat with one hand and wiping his streaming eyes with the other, probably leaving a smear of graveyard dirt all over his face and eyes, like the worst raccoon face paint in the history of Fourth of July block parties. “What the fuck.”  
   
In response to these accusations, the cat sat back on its haunches, favoring him with an incredibly unimpressed blink. And then, with a delicate leap to its feet, it was wandering off into the dark, tail high and twitching, leaving Dean to stare after it, still shaking with righteous indignation.  
   
The only good that came of the encounter, Dean thought to himself as he furiously shoveled dirt over ashes and bits of unburned wood, all in the name of covering up the evidence of his evening activities, was that now that he was all worked up, the job got done a lot faster.  
   
#  
   
For whatever reason, he neglected to tell Sam about his encounter. To be honest, in the vast repertoire of Weird Things That Have Happened To Dean Winchester, a graveyard cat was barely a blip on the radar. In fact, by the time he’d roused Sam to get a very late breakfast, he’d almost completely forgotten.  
   
At the diner two streets over, with Sam now apparently recovered from his ordeal, they drank coffee and discussed the possibilities for another hunt over eggs Benedict and some kind of massive Greek salad; Dean wanted to wait for Cas to catch up to them, Sam argued that the signs of a haunting up in Maine had been imminent for days before they’d even finished their current case, and that Cas was perfectly capable of meeting them in Maine instead of Pennsylvania, _Dean_.  
   
Dean pressed his lips together at that, but he was reasonably sure that Sam would make fun of him for the next decade if he gave even so much of a hint that he actually missed the bastard.  
   
Still.  
   
“I’m worried about that shitty pimp car of his, man.” Dean toyed with his fork. “Don’t know how well it can get up there. What if there’s black ice or something? Dude doesn’t even know what to do with chains.”  
   
“It’s barely October.”  
   
“It’s Maine!”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“It was making some weird noises last time, okay?” Dean snapped defensively, cheeks reddening.  
   
“Its okay to say that you miss him.” Sam, the bastard, was actually looking sympathetic now, brown eyes wide and gentle, like he cared that Dean had _feelings_ and was missing the warmth in bed at night, the extra safety and comfort that Cas’s arm thrown over him meant, like Dean’s own sort-of-angel security blanket.  
   
“I’m—” Dean choked out, furious, though not so sure if it was at Sam for being such a girl, or at himself for being so emotionally constipated, or at Cas for being _gone_ for the past two weeks, fixing some heavenly, bureaucratic nonsense that apparently required his _very particular expertise_ on the care and feeding of the human race.  
   
(Dean wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t.)  
   
Sam’s expression shifted to one of even more compassion and understanding, and Dean kind of wanted to punch him. Sam nodded towards the baked-goods case near the front of the diner. “Want a donut?” he offered, already standing like the feel-good martyr he was, like pastries were going to solve all of Dean’s problems. “I’m going to get one.”  
   
Dean sneered, then looked down at the table. “Yes,” he muttered, because if he couldn’t have Cas, then the least his brother could do was get him a chocolate cruller.  
   
Sam patted him consolingly on the shoulder as he passed, and Dean manfully resisted the urge to smack his fingers.  
   
The cruller actually did make him feel a little better, Dean was forced to admit. So much so, in fact, that before they left the diner, he went ahead and bought an old fashioned on his way out, biting half of it in one go, as Sam looked on in resigned disgust.  
   
So it was, that, balancing a cup of coffee for the road in one hand, holding the door for a little old lady with the other, and with his mouth stuffed full of gooey donut, Dean spotted the cat for the second time. This time, it was sitting on the edge of the concrete wall by the doorway, looking for all the world like a bored teenager waiting for mom to come out of the store. As the brothers Winchester emerged, it got to its feet and arched its back in a long, shuddering stretch, before sitting back down again and beginning to wash.  
   
Dean froze. Sam caught the door before it banged shut on grandma Edith’s bad hip.  
   
“You!” Dean sputtered, though since his mouth was full of donut, it came out more like ‘ _Ymf_!’  
   
“Huh?” queried Sam, shutting the door gently and then glancing at Dean, probably thinking that he was the one being addressed.  
   
Dean swallowed, then said again, this time much more clearly, “You!”  
   
“Uh…”  
   
“No, not you, Sam. The cat!”  
   
“What cat?”  
   
“That cat!” Dean pointed.  
   
“Oh.” Sam blinked, spotting the feline in question. “That cat.” His eyebrows drew together while Dean continued to point and glare and generally make a scene. “Okay…and why do we care about that cat, exactly?”  
   
The cat darted forward to rub itself against Dean’s ankles. Batting it away, Dean sneezed several times in quick succession.  
   
“Aw,” said Sam. “He likes you.” He squatted and snapped his fingers tantalizingly. The cat ignored him. It jumped back up onto the wall, continuing to stare at Dean and meow. With a sigh, Sam stood up. “I didn’t think you liked cats.”  
   
Dean would have cussed him out, but he was too busy wiping his teary eyes on his sleeve, and so just flipped Sam off instead.  
   
“Aren’t you allergic?” Sam continued.  
   
Dean glowered. “That thing followed me from the job last night,” he said, with another scathing look at it. “Startled the hell out of me, man.”  
   
“Oh no,” said Sam. “Did you scream?”  
   
“I will make you take the bus to Maine, you dick.”  
   
“Touchy, touchy.”  
   
“Screw you.”  
   
Sam rested his hands on his knees and leaned down to peer at the cat. “Are you sure he’s even the same one?”  
   
“What?” Dean snapped, “Of course I’m sure. How many giant, stray black cats do you think there are in this town?”  
   
Sam shrugged.  
   
“Fuck’s sake,” growled Dean. “It’s creepy.” He turned as if to make for the car, but then, seeming to think of something, spun back around. “I’d better not see your ass again,” he told the cat. “Shut it, Sammy,” he added, while Sam snorted.  
   
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your moment.”  
   
As Dean swiveled to start up on him again, neither of them noticed the light _thump_ of four black paws hitting pavement, nor the rustling of the bushes at the cat disappeared from sight.  
   
#  
   
Dean ended up driving the lion’s share of the six and a half hour trip up north. He also spent the majority of his time behind the wheel sulking, which he expressed by gripping the steering wheel extra tightly, ignoring Sam when he requested that Dean maybe try not to take those curves quite so fast, and playing Meatloaf’s greatest hits on repeat.  
   
When they reached Portland, Sam stumbled from the car looking a tad bit greener than his usual. Meanwhile, Dean shifted from foot to foot, fingers poised over his phone while he debated calling Cas to update him on their new location. In the end, Sam’s irritable voice calling from the entrance of the hotel lobby made the decision for him, and he settled with just sending off a quick text message.  
   
**La Quinta in portland maine, sammy wants to gank s ghost**  
   
***a**  
   
And then, after walking to the sliding doors:  
   
**miss u**  
   
“Did you text him?”  
   
“Shut up.”  
   
The emotive staring followed him all the way to their room, where Sam dropped his bag unceremoniously on the floor and himself on the bed farthest from the door, near the sputtering air conditioning.  
   
“We should stay in real hotels more often.”  
   
Dean took a ginger seat on his own coverlet. “Still wouldn’t get anywhere near the mattress I got for the bunker,” he said.  
   
Sam blew air out of the corner of his mouth, obviously trying not to roll his eyes. “I think your relationship with that mattress is a little unhealthy.”  
   
“You’re unhealthy,” Dean sniped back, totally originally. “You—“ his phone started to buzz in his pocket. Dean leaped to his feet. “Gotta take this,” he said.  
   
“Say hi to your bae for me!” Sam yelled after him, as Dean slammed out of the room. He nearly dropped the phone as he fumbled it to his ear.  
   
“Hello? Dean?”  
   
Something in Dean’s shoulders loosened, though he hadn’t even been aware that they had been tight. A slow warmth that he really couldn’t attribute to anything else but the voice on the other end of the line, curled up through Dean’s stomach. Taking a breath, he leaned against the side of the door at the end of the hallway.  
   
“Hey, Cas.”  
   
“Dean,” Cas repeated. “How, um. How are you?”  
   
“You know…” Dean trailed off. Coughed. “Can’t complain.”  
   
“You can’t?”  
   
“Dude.”  
   
“Oh, I—“ now Cas sounded a little embarrassed. “Yes, I see. Um, good. That’s good.”  
   
Dean huffed out a laugh. “How’s Heaven?”  
   
“I believe they hate me,” Castiel said bluntly. Dean choked.  
   
“Wow, they uh, not let you sit at the lunch table or something?”  
   
“Or something, yes.”  
   
“But I thought they _needed_ you.” Dean shifted positions, absently rubbing his forearm. He’d scratched it on the hunt. It was a pretty standard injury. He tried not to think about how Cas would’ve already healed it, even when Dean told him not to. “Pretty shitty to invite a guy up just to be an asshole. Course, they’re generally dicks.”  
   
“You are…not wrong.”  
   
Dean snorted. “Anyway,” he said. “Vamp hunt’s over and done with. Thought I’d let you know we’re in Maine now for when, you know,” his throat was feeling oddly scratchy, “whenever you’re done with being the uh, resident human expert up there. So you can, you know. Find us.”  
   
“Thank you,” Cas said, voice so serious that for a moment Dean was sure that he was fucking with him. “I hope—” he paused. “I think it should be soon.”  
   
Dean swallowed. “Good,” he said. “That’s—I mean.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
“I miss you,” Dean blurted out, and then immediately cringed. Jesus Christ, he was turning into _that guy_. Humiliating.  
   
But if anything, Castiel’s voice on the other end only seemed to soften. “I miss you, too,” he said. “I will do my best to catch up to you within the next few days.” He made an odd noise in the back of his throat. “In addition to…” He paused. “As I said, my reception here has been very cold. I have no desire to remain.”  
   
Though his face was still burning, Dean allowed himself a small smile. He toyed with the loosening plastic cover on his phone. “It’s really that bad, huh?”  
   
“Horrible,” Castiel confirmed, and Dean felt the lightest he had in three weeks.  
   
They continued to speak for a while after that, even managing to stray away from their usual topics, like “heaven” and “hunting” and “Sam’s goddamn hair”. By the time Dean hung up an hour later, he was whistling and preparing to generously offer to go get some takeout.  
   
As soon as he stepped back into the motel room however, his good mood abruptly vanished.  
   
“What,” Dean said, staring, “what the hell?”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said grimly. He looked up from where he sat at the crappy desk, caught in a staring contest with the black cat lying prone on what was supposed to have been Dean’s pillow. “I think we might have a problem.”  
   
#  
   
“But how did it even get in?” Dean raged, pacing up and down by the window and tossing glares at the cat every times its paws twitched or it let out a contented purr.  
   
“I told you, man.” Sam looked like he was battling several migraines at once. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose like a vise. “I opened the window, turned away to get a clean shirt out of my bag, and when I turned back around it was there.”  
   
“On my bed.”  
   
“On your bed.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
Sam gave him a jaundiced scowl. “Does it seriously look like I would know the answer to that?” When Dean continued to look expectant, biting his lip but staying near the open window to avoid getting too stuffed up, Sam said, “I don’t know, Dean. The thing—whatever it is—seems to be attached to _you_.” He pressed his lips together, arms crossed. “It just ignores me.”  
   
Dean gripped his hair, wild eyed. “But how did it even get here? We’re like seven states away!”  
   
“Maybe,” Sam bit out slowly, maintaining eye contact with his brother, “it _apparated_.”  
   
Dean pointed a finger at him. “You are not taking this seriously.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
“There is—”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“—some kind of, of, _evil monster cat_ —”  
   
“We don’t actually know if it’s evil—”  
   
“On my bed—”  
   
“Oh, here we go.”  
   
“—and you’re making Harry Potter jokes?”  
   
While Dean teetered on the cliff’s edge of an aneurism, Sam let out a long and deliberate exhale. His own patience about to run out, he suggested, “Why don't we try the silver?”  
   
They did try the silver. They also tried the iron and the salt. When that failed, Sam bravely flicked some holy water at the cat, which did cause it to hiss and bat at the drops with a lazy front paw. It remained otherwise unharmed.  
   
“So it’s a…demonic cat?” Dean said, eyeing it doubtfully as it rolled onto its back and, now purring again, kneaded at his pillow.  
   
“No, I just don’t think it liked being sprayed with water.” After a mournful look at the bottle clasped in his hand, Sam sighed and clunked it back down onto the desk. He and Dean exchanged irritated, slightly resigned looks, Dean’s nose twitching as he fought to contain another set of sneezes. After a moment, wherein Sam debated making a dash for the box of tissues on the other side of the room, Dean stood from his seat at the window, eyebrows murderous.  
   
“You know what?” he said, marching towards the bed, his mouth set in a firm line. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” And, clearly steeling himself, he reached down and picked up the cat.  
   
Sam cringed, expecting Dean’s arms to be shredded at any moment. When all that happened was a light lashing of the tail, Sam and Dean traded uneasy glances. Holding the cat at chest height, an arm’s length away, Dean wrinkled his nose.  
   
“All right,” he said grimly. And with that, he strode over to the door, nudged it open with his hip and his knee, and then dumped the cat unceremoniously outside. “And stay out!” he told it firmly, before shutting the door in its face. Dusting off his hands, he turned back around towards Sam, his expression a mask of victory.  
   
And sneezed.  
   
“Okay,” said Sam, after it became apparent that whatever creepy abilities the cat might have had, it at least couldn’t walk through doors. “I guess we…start working on the case?”  
   
“Sounds like a…a…”  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“ _Achoo!”_ Dean wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and sniffled. “A plan.”  
   
Sam just looked at him.  
   
“What?” Dean snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Any intimidating effect he might have hoped to achieve however, was ruined by a second bout of sneezing. Sam silently pointed at Dean’s bag, then at the bathroom door. Dean pressed his lips together like he wanted to argue, but was interrupted by another fit of sneezes, eyes now red and streaming.  
   
“Dude,” said Sam.  
   
“Fine, fine!” Dean rubbed his eyes again. “I’ll take the Benadryl.”  
   
“And wash your hands!” Sam shouted at him, as Dean stalked towards the bathroom door. “And we’re switching beds!”  
   
Dean flipped him off just before slamming the door so hard, the cheap paintings of the Adirondacks above the beds, rattled.  
   
#  
   
Out of what he claimed to be the kindness of his heart, it was Sam who eventually ventured far enough from their room to find some takeout, though he did spend a few minutes moaning about how he was only just recovering from his previous bout of ill health.  
   
Fully expecting the cat to still be waiting outside, he had been dreading the process of opening the door and trying to perform the body block in order to prevent it from bolting into the room and probably sending Dean into anaphylactic shock. Much to his surprise when he stepped outside however, the cat was gone. The only evidence that it had been there was a smattering of long black hairs on the mustard yellow carpet.  
   
He reported his findings over his shoulder, preparing to carefully latch the door on his way out, room key snug in the pocket of his jeans.  
   
“And good riddance!” Dean called from the bathroom. In lieu of just washing his hands, he had decided to take an entire shower, all in the name of scrubbing himself clean from any leftover essence of cat, while Sam went out to procure their dinner. Turning to catch the spray from the showerhead, Dean noticed that the cut on his arm no longer stung.  
   
Freshly showered and dressed in only the finest of boxers and an old t-shirt, Dean wandered back into the hotel room to collapse on Sam’s bed.  
   
He was flicking mindlessly through channels when Sam showed up again, dangling plastic bags full of cartons of lo mein and black bean chicken. They both ate on Sam’s bed, propped against the pillows like they were kids again, watching whatever the hell channel Dean had settled on—something to do with aliens and pyramids. Whatever, it was kind of intriguing, okay, Sam?  
   
Sam had barely finished eating before he was gathering his laptop to him, all refreshed and bright eyed, ready for a night of fun and learning about a spook who hated tax collectors. Dean, meanwhile, felt like his eyes had been stuffed full of sand. He stifled a yawn with one hand, reaching over to set the empty food carton onto the bedside table while Sam talked.  
   
“And get this. So this dude was a freaking hoarder _and_ paranoid. Hated the tax man, hated the repair man, was given a bunch of citations for chasing off _girl scouts with his shotgun…_ ” Sam trailed off. He turned his head to look at his brother, who was listing off to the side, expression vacant. Sam gave him a nudge. “Dean. Dean?”  
   
“Wha—what?” Dean shook himself. “I’m awake, I’m awake. What’d I miss?”  
   
Sam looked amused. “How much Benadryl did you take?”  
   
“What? I’m fine, Sam. Jesus.” His assertions were ruined by his next giant yawn. “Keep talking.”  
   
“You’re not even listening to me.”  
   
“What? Yeah, I am!”  
   
Sam cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “You can’t listen to me if you’re asleep, Dean.”  
   
“I am not asleep!” Only Dean could sound so outraged at the mere suggestion that he was human and prone to those inconvenient human frailties, once in a blue moon.  
   
“Uh huh.” Sam resolutely shut his laptop. He got to his feet, looking down at his brother. “Whatever, dude. We can talk about this guy in the morning just as well.”  
   
“I’m not tired,” Dean muttered again, while Sam moved his stuff onto the other bed. But by the time Sam had gone to the bathroom to brush his teeth and come back out again, Dean was already out cold, not even under the covers, his bedside lamp still on. A reluctant smile playing around the corners of his mouth, Sam shut it off for him. That done, he settled into Dean’s former bed to continue his reading.  
   
#  
   
At 2:43 am, Dean struggled awake, distantly aware that his arms and legs were cold. The only part of him that wasn’t freezing, oddly enough, was his right foot. That, Dean thought distantly, was weird because despite the fact that Cas was an angel, _his_ feet were always icy, so they couldn’t possibly have been warming Dean’s. And anyway, Cas was gone so…  
   
Dean groped for the bedside lamp and flicked it on.  
   
The cat, settled at the base of Dean’s bed, its fur curling over Dean’s toes, blinked back at him in wide-eyed innocence.  
   
Dean let out a very loud and embarrassing shriek, flailing on his back like a startled beetle. The noise surprised the cat, which leapt off the bed to cower under it, and it _definitely_ surprised Sam, who shot upright and had his knife clutched in his hand before his eyes had even finished opening.  
   
“What, what, _what_?”  
   
“That,” Dean gasped, eyes bloodshot, his heart rate only now starting to return to something not indicative of imminent cardiac arrest, “that damn cat!”  
   
Predictably, the night did not improve much from there.  
   
Sam spent a good thirty minutes trying to coax the cat out from under the bed, with little success. Dean, still feeling rather violated from his unexpected visitor and beginning to get that nagging tingle at the base of his nose that foretold worse things to come if he stuck around, fled to the bathroom, where he curled up in the off-white bathtub with nothing more than a set of towels for his pillow.  
   
Unable to entreat the cat to leave the room, Sam eventually gave up. He withdrew to his bed and tried his best to catch at least a few more hours of sleep, all the while keeping a nervous eye on the underside of Dean’s bed.  
   
He left the light on.  
   
The next morning they were both dry-eyed and surly. Dean stalked off to the Dunkin’s across the street at first light, and Sam didn’t have the heart to scoff at the donuts and coffee he brought back with him. Instead, he gobbled them down as quickly as he could, needing the sugar rush and the caffeine, and scalding his tongue in the process.  
   
The cat, he later checked, was still under the bed.  
   
Obviously they were going to have to deal with that little issue somehow in the near future. However, in the interest of averting the hospitalization of the next poor soul who tried to enter the now-condemned shack of the dearly departed Frederick Turner, they decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest to check out the place first. Hopefully they would be able to find what the damned ghost was attached to, burn it, and then deal with the cat.  
   
Frederick Turner’s house was at the very end of a lonely road off the main highway. In the interest of…something (Dean wasn’t exactly sure what), the windows had been boarded over messily with plywood and nails, like something out of a tornado thriller. Odd pieces of machinery and garden tools littered the front and side yards. The grass was growing wild, too, shooting up between holes in the fences and old watering cans.  
   
“Watch for ticks,” Sam warned, as they cut a path to the front door. To which Dean replied casually,  
   
“I hate you,” and made a vow to double, triple check during his next shower.  
   
It was when they finally jimmied open the lock and the door creaked open in an appropriately daunting fashion, that Dean knew they were in trouble.  
   
“Jesus Christ.”  
   
“Told you he was a hoarder,” Sam murmured.  
   
“We have to figure out what he’s attached to out of all _this_?” Dean extended his arm. Just from the doorway they could make out piles and piles of newspapers, stacks of old phone books, crates of kitchenware and ratty clothing lining the walls and slumped over furniture. Dingy paths, like the mole people had already come to the surface and this was where they were making their stand, dug between the piles of junk, making what Dean was sure had to be the weirdest, grossest homemade maze of all time.  
   
Dean turned to Sam. “There is no way.”  
   
“Well…”  
   
“We should just burn it all to the ground. You said it was condemned, anyway.”  
   
Sam looked a little uncomfortable at the suggestion, but nodded his head. “You might be right.”  
   
Dean scoffed. “Of course I’m right.” He indicated the entryway in front of them again. “The only way we’re going to be able to cleanse this shithole is with fire.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I’m going to go get the gasoline.”  
   
As soon as the words left his mouth, Dean felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The door slammed shut. A chill air swept across the entryway. Dean tensed.  
   
“Sam,” he said, very deliberately as his fingers tightened on the iron crowbar still in his grip, “what was that you were saying last night about old man Turner being a paranoid son of a bitch who hated visitors?”  
   
“Fuck,” Sam said, realizing. He took two steps back towards the impala, just before all hell broke loose.  
   
The door to the house didn’t just open, it banged open with a gust straight from the depths of hell. Papers fluttered wildly, forks and shearing scissors wobbled to a standing position, all the while a great howling seemed to echo from the tunnels within: _“Get ouuuuuuuut!”_ it hissed.  
   
“Touchy, touchy,” said Dean. “You’d think—” he let out a cry as he was thrown against the wall, his crowbar tumbling to the floor. “Goddamnit,” he gasped. “Sammy—go—get the damn gasoline!”  
   
As Sam nodded, swiveling quickly to make a run for the trunk, several more things happened at once:  
   
The shade of Frederick Turner appeared, translucent and bitter in the entryway. He was wearing a nightcap straight out of A Christmas Carol, striped pajamas, and a raggedy robe. It was abundantly clear, as he brandished an equally ghostly shotgun at Dean, that he was not resting in peace. In the back of his mind, Sam was surprised that a guy who hadn’t even really been dead all that long, had managed to manifest so powerfully. Then again, Sam supposed, if _he’d_ had to wait three weeks before someone even noticed he was missing, and then after that, another two before someone bothered to come round to check and find his decaying corpse, he’d probably have been irritated too.  
   
Not irritated enough to cause nearly-fatal accidents to anyone who stepped onto the properly, to be sure, but maybe enough to rearrange the furniture a little.  
   
As Turner shook his shotgun and glowered up at Dean, and Sam raced to the impala to get the salt and the gasoline, he failed to notice the small black streak that went hurtling past his legs and into the house.  
   
Dean, though he was starting to see stars, did notice.  
   
“What—what the hell?” he wheezed, as the cat skidded to a halt and hissed at Frederick Turner’s ghost. Its hair stood up on end and its ears flattened to its skull. Before Dean’s disbelieving eyes, it leaped upright at just the right angle to knock a fire poker off from where it leaned against the wall, straight into Fredrick Turner’s nonexistent leg.  
   
Turner vanished. Dean suddenly found he could breath again, and wrenched himself to a standing position.  
   
“What…” he repeated, still staring at the cat. It sat on its haunches and mewed at him, before picking its way across the floor to twine between his ankles. Dean was so nonplussed that he didn’t even try to kick it away.  
   
Meanwhile, Sam raced up, clutching the container of gas in one hand and the bag of rock salt in the other. “I’ve got the—Dean?”  
   
“Sammy,” Dean said, very seriously, even as he took the rock salt from his brother and ripped the bag open to spill it onto the floor, “the cat’s a ghostbuster.”  
   
Sam stared. After a moment he said blankly, “Wait, the cat? It’s here? What?”  
   
“No, really,” said Dean. He grabbed the gasoline and opened it, wrinkling his nose at the smell and pouring it onto the ground. He made sure not to splash the cat. He lit a match.  
   
“Uh…” said Sam.  
   
“A god damned ghostbuster,” Dean repeated. He dropped the match. The flames began to spread, quickly engulfing the newspaper tunnels and phonebook berms in a smoky, yellow-orange haze. “Swear to god.”  
   
Sam, taking notice of the cat for the first time, could do nothing but nod.  
   
With the house in flames and Frederick Turner’s ghost along with it, Sam watched as an uncharacteristically quiet Dean collected and disposed of the evidence that they’d ever been there. He then plodded over to the impala (cat at his heels) to go sit in the driver’s seat. He dropped his head in his hands and breathed deeply.  
   
Sam reached for his cell phone, hitting one of the four numbers he had on speed dial.  
   
“Hello?”  
   
“Hey, Cas,” said Sam. “You know I normally wouldn’t ask you this, but: how much longer do you think you’ll be gone?”  
   
He winced for a moment, practically hearing the restrained panic on the other end of the line.  
   
“What? Sam, is Dean in trouble?”  
   
“No, no,” Sam said hastily. “At least—I don't think. He’s fine. There’s just. Something.”  
   
“Something?”  
   
“It’s kind of hard to explain.”  
   
“Well, I would appreciate it if you would try.”  
   
Sam exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Dean’s being followed by a, uh, magical cat. Or something. Possibly evil. We’re uh. We’re not sure about that last one.”  
   
Silence on the other end.  
   
“I told you it was hard to explain.”  
   
“Yes…” Castiel said slowly. “You did. A magical cat? You’re sure? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”  
   
“Believe me,” said Sam, “if I wasn’t looking at it right now, I’d be right there with you. But whatever it is, I don’t think it means him any harm. I actually think it might’ve just saved his life. Still—”  
   
“Fascinating,” Castiel murmured. “And it’s with him now?”  
   
“Yep. Hasn’t tried to jump into the car yet, though I think it’s just a matter a time.”  
   
At his words, Castiel heaved a sigh. “My work here is almost done. I will do my best to join you tonight or tomorrow and see about this…unusual feline.”  
   
Sam felt his shoulders relax in relief. “That’s great, man,” he said. “Really. Thanks.”  
   
“It’s nothing.” A beat. “I had already planned to join you two within the next few days. This just gives me more of an incentive.”  
   
“All right, Cas,” Sam said. He watched as, out of the corner of his eye, Dean smacked his head against the steering wheel. “See you soon.”  
   
“Goodbye, Sam.”  
   
And the line was cut.  
   
Stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Sam walked over to the car. He bent down to speak to Dean through the open window of the driver’s side. “I spoke to Cas.”  
   
“What?” Dean jerked around. “What’d you do that for?”  
   
Giving him a ‘no duh’ look, Sam thumbed at the cat sitting on the grass less than a foot away.  
   
Dean’s nostrils flared. “Man, Cas doesn’t need to worry about stuff like that. He’s busy.”  
   
“Pretty sure he does, actually.” He opened the door and slid into the front seat. His eyebrows rose as the cat followed him around the side. Before Sam could even open his mouth to say no—or shut the door—the cat had scrambled under his arm and onto his lap. Its claws dug into the skin of his legs for all of two seconds, before it was jumping off again, to curl up in the very back of the impala.  
   
Dean sneezed. However, aside from that, he didn’t say a word. Sam gaped at him.  
   
“There’s a cat in your car.”  
   
“I noticed.”  
   
“And you’re just,” Sam took a deep breath, “just _okay_ with it?”  
   
Dean sneezed again. Sam absently handed him a tissue from the box on the floor near his feet.  
   
“That cat’s clearly coming, whether I want it to or not,” he replied, after blowing his nose. “At least this way we can keep an eye on it.”  
   
Sam continued to stare. Finally, he said, “Cas said he’ll be here tonight or tomorrow.” When Dean’s lips pursed but he didn’t say anything, Sam added, “He said he was almost done, anyway.”  
   
“He’s a big fat liar.”  
   
That time, Sam did roll his eyes. “You miss him.”  
   
Dean glowered at the windshield, but it did nothing to hide the slow blush that crept up his neck. Sam snorted.  
   
“Come on,” he said, giving his brother a companionable shove, “let’s get going before someone notices the smoke.”  
   
The first stop they made was the drug store. The cat, now that it was being allowed to properly accompany them—or rather, _Dean_ —seemed content enough to wait it out in the car, while Sam and Dean went inside to stock up on every brand on non-drowsy antihistamine on the market. Thus armed, they returned to the car, where Dean immediately popped open the first box that came to hand, digging into the foil to take out the pills and swallow them.  
   
When they finally made it back to the motel, the cat swaggered along beside them. When Dean opened the door, it made a beeline for his pillow, settling on it like a king reclaiming his rightful throne.  
   
Scrubbing his face heavily, Dean sighed. He made his way into the room as well, slumping onto one of the rickety armchairs over by the table.  
   
“This is really freaking weird, man.”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said, watching as the cat stretched out and purred, “no kidding.”  
   
They fell into silence. After another minute or so, Dean got to his feet, mumbling something about a shower, and retreated to the bathroom. When Sam heard the sounds of the water start up, he fumbled for his laptop and began to search as many permutations of the terms ‘creepy magical cat’ he could think of.  
   
Dean usually found showers to be relaxing affairs. This time though, with the knowledge that the thing that was stressing him out was still waiting patiently for him on the other side of the door, no doubt getting fur all over his pillow in the interim, the hot water was not having its usual calming effect.  
   
With a sigh, he turned off the water and began to dress again.  
   
When he exited the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry with the towel, the situation appeared to be exactly as terrible as it had been when he’d left. The only thing that seemed to have changed, was that Sam now sat at the chair, squinting at something on his computer screen.  
   
“Find anything interesting?” Dean asked, as he snagged a clean shirt from his bag.  
   
Sam shrugged. “There are a lot of kid’s shows with magical cats,” he said. “Also, uh,” he frowned, “Egyptian folklore.”  
   
“As long as it’s not some kind of god,” Dean muttered. He sat on Sam’s bed, away from the cat. “You hear that?” he told it. “You’d better not be a god.”  
   
The cat blinked slowly at him.  
   
Sam opened his mouth, probably to scoff at Dean talking to a cat, when there was a knock on the door. Before Sam could even twitch, Dean was on his feet, making a beeline for the door. Hiding his grin behind his hand, Sam sunk back into his chair.  
   
“Cas!” Dean exclaimed, as he threw open the door.  
   
On the other side, Castiel smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, though he seemed tired as he straightened from his lean against the doorway. “Dean.”  
   
“That’s me.”  
   
There was a moment of silence, while Dean and Castiel seemed mutually inclined to just eye each other through the entrance.  
   
(Still in the chair and pretending to work, Sam shook his head.)  
   
“May I, um,” said Castiel. “May I enter?”  
   
“Oh! Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Of course.” Dean stood aside to let Castiel through. As he did so, Sam glanced up to give him a wave.  
   
“Hello, Sam.”  
   
“Hey, Cas. Long day at the office?”  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “I don’t—”But whatever he was going to say died in his throat as his expression abruptly shifted. He pointed at the bed, face like a thundercloud. “ _What is that doing in here_?”  
   
“What?” said Dean. He followed Castiel’s gaze. On the bed, no longer peacefully snoozing, stood the cat. Its hackles were raised, and it was growling low in its throat, all of its attention fixed on Castiel. “Uh,” said Dean, looking back and forth between the angel on his right and the cat on his left, “that’s the, uh,” he cleared his throat, “the cat that’s been stalking me.”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes blazed. Over on the bed, the cat looked like it was about to pounce, aiming, no doubt, for Castiel’s jugular. Sam scooted back in his chair a little, and snapped his laptop closed.  
   
“…Yeah?”  
   
“That’s not a cat.”  
   
“Uh…”  
   
“Knew it,” muttered Sam.  
   
“Then wha—”  
   
“It’s a familiar.”  
   
“Oka—wait, _what?_ ”  
   
And the conversation rapidly devolved from there.  
   
It took a surprisingly long time for the situation to defuse itself. In the end, it was Dean who snapped, “Would you freaking stop it? He’s on our side!” at the cat—no, _familiar—_ before it stopped glaring at Castiel like it wanted to eviscerate him for even being in the same room as Dean. Eventually it settled stiffly on Dean’s pillow, tail still lashing, though it had ceased making those low, threatening noises deep in its throat.  
   
For his part, Castiel had allowed himself to be maneuvered into another chair, though his shoulders remained tense and his eyes never left the cat’s form. Dean nearly handed him a beer, then reconsidered and poured him a shot of whisky instead. Castiel downed it in one go, then held his glass out for another.  
   
Dean kind of wanted to kiss him.  
   
“So,” he said instead, because he had the feeling that if he actually _tried_ giving Cas that welcome back kiss, the fragile truce between cat and angel would go up in flames, “you were saying?”  
   
“Hold on,” said Sam, who, as soon as he’d heard the word ‘familiar’ was back to his laptop. “We saw witches’ familiars before. They could shift to human.” He looked uncertainly at the cat. “Does it have a human form?”  
   
Dean groaned at the thought. “You slept on my feet!” he told the cat, accusingly.  
   
But Castiel was already shaking his head. “The term ‘familiar’ is a bit of a misnomer,” he said. “There are many creatures that fall under the umbrella. This,” he jerked his chin towards the cat while Dean filled up his third glass of whiskey, “is not like the creature you encountered before. It has no human form.” He didn’t drink the whole thing this time, just brought the glass up to his lips and sipped.  
   
Sam frowned. “So, if it’s not like what we saw before, then what is it?”  
   
Castiel let out a sigh. He cast a lingering glance over at Dean, who stood close enough to touch, fingers just gracing the back of Castiel’s chair. “It’s…” he leaned his head back, so that it rested for just a moment next to Dean’s fingers. “It’s energy,” he said finally. “Energy with a purpose, energy that has chosen a form, and found another, um.” He struggled for a moment. “It chose its form,” he said again, finally. “Likewise, it has found another, um, vessel, housing energy similar to its own to um, bond with.”  
   
A long silence followed this pronouncement.  
   
“If you were a practicing witch you would be able to use its strength to draw extra energy,” Castiel added, helpfully. “For example if you were injured or tired, its touch will help your own body heal more quickly. That’s one of the sources of the folklore, actually.” He pursed his lips, “Though it has gotten abysmally mixed up with the other—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said loudly. “Stop.”  
   
“My apologies.” Castiel actually looked abashed. “I wasn’t expecting this.”  
   
“Well, great,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “That makes three of us.” The corner of his eye twitched. “Now that we know _what_ it is, mind explaining why it’s _following me_?”  
   
Castiel lifted his chin. “Don’t shout at me, Dean,” he said primly. “I’m just as surprised as you are. It’s a rare thing, to attract a familiar. Initially I believed it to belong to another witch—perhaps one that meant you harm.”  
   
“I’m not—” Dean rubbed at his temples. “Sorry. I just—” his shoulders slumped. “Why is it following me around? And how the hell do I get rid of it?”  
   
“I’m not sure,” said Castiel, while at the same time at the other end of the room, Sam said,  
   
“Yer a wizard, Harry,” and snorted.  
   
Dean pointed a finger at him. “Swear to god, Sam,” he said. “One more Harry Potter crack out of you—”  
   
“Actually,” Castiel said slowly, “Sam might be correct.”  
   
Immediately Dean whirled around. “I’m not a witch!” he snarled, his voice at least three times the necessary volume. “I don’t deal with bones and, and bodily fluids, and creepy talismans and shit!” He sounded almost injured. Over on the bed, the cat began to pace. “What the hell, Cas?”  
   
“Actually, if you want to get technical about it,” Sam murmured.  
   
“That’s not what I’m saying, Dean.” Castiel got to his feet. He reached out a hand and gripped Dean’s shoulder. “I’m not saying you’re a witch in the sense that you’ve made a—a deal for supernatural powers.”  
   
Dean huffed.  
   
“What I am saying,” Castiel continued, looking him in the eye, “is that, given what your soul’s been through, is it any surprise that its energy is a bit—unusual?”  
   
“But,” Dean’s voice was unnaturally small, uncertain. “But I’m human.”  
   
Sam and Castiel exchanged glances, and then Castiel was enfolding Dean into a tight embrace. At first Dean tensed, but when Castiel refused to release him, he began to relax incrementally, so that after a few more moments, it was only the circle of Castiel’s arms that was keeping him standing.  
   
“Of course you’re human,” Castiel whispered fiercely into his ear. “There is no demon left in you. I’ve made sure of it. Your trials have only made your soul shine all the brighter.” He cupped the back of Dean’s head in his hand, brought it to his shoulder. “The familiar recognizes _like_ energy. I sense no evil in it. There is none in you.”  
   
“I don’t want it.”  
   
“It chose you.”  
   
“I don’t care.”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel drew back a bit to look him in the eye. “You must think about this carefully. The familiar is _powerful_ and it chose you. Before you decide to banish it, consider the possible advantages it might bring.”  
   
“I thought you didn’t like it,” Dean said, not at all sulkily.  
   
Castiel lifted his shoulders. “I sensed its power when I entered the room—when I thought its loyalties lay elsewhere. Now?” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “If it will protect you, I see no reason to get rid of it.”  
   
“It was helpful on the hunt,” Sam said. Dean gave him a look. “What? I’m just telling the truth. It was!”  
   
Dean’s nostrils flared. He pressed his lips together. “Look,” he said. “I get it. I do. I just.” He spread his hands. “I can’t have a freaking cat following me around all the time!”  
   
Castiel blinked. “That’s your objection? That it chose the form of a cat?”  
   
“Isn’t it enough?” Dean demanded. He tossed his head back to look at the familiar, who, if possible, looked a little offended. “No offense,” he said to it. “You understand.”  
   
“You don’t like cats?” Castiel said, sounding lost.  
   
Dean gave him an incredulous look. “Cas, I’m _allergic_!”  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened. “Oh.”  
   
“I can’t live the rest of my life hopped up on antihistamines!”  
   
“You could,” said Sam.  
   
“Shut it, Sam. You know, maybe if the familiar had chosen literally any other animal—”  
   
“Except a dog. You have a thing against dogs.”  
   
“Yes, thank you, Sam. Except a dog—”  
   
“Or a bear.”  
   
“Or a—you know what, Sam? You can shut up now.”  
   
“A fish probably wouldn’t have been practical either.”  
   
“ _Anyway_ , point being—”  
   
“If that’s your main issue,” Castiel said, head cocked to the side, “I could fix it for you.”  
   
Dean’s jaw immediately snapped shut. Sam blinked.  
   
“You—” said Dean.  
   
“Oh yes,” said Castiel. “It’s really just a miscommunication with your immune system, if you’ll allow me just one moment.” He reached his hand forward and tapped Dean lightly on the forehead. “There.” He stepped back, looking quite pleased with himself. “That should do it.” His eyebrows knit together. “You know, Dean. If you had told me about this problem earlier, I could have fixed it as soon as my connection to heaven was reestablished. There was no need for you to suffer.”  
   
“You,” Dean said weakly, staring at him.  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Now will you at least consider the benefits of retaining the familiar?”  
   
In response, Dean let loose a long, shuddering breath. “I need to sit down.”  
   
True to his word, he fell, more than sat, into Castiel’s abandoned chair.  
   
“I took the liberty of removing the antihistamines from your systems as well.” Castiel moved next to him to rest a hand on the nape of Dean’s neck. In response, Dean buried his face in his hands. “Dean?”  
   
While Dean shook his head, mumbling something incomprehensible, the cat, as if it had been waiting for this moment, rose and stretched. It hopped off the bed and, still giving Castiel a bit of a berth, headed for Dean.  
   
Dean startled as a warm weight of something came to rest in his lap. Automatically, he reached his hand out to feel it, then clenched his fist when he realized what it was. Then, slowly, after another moment of hesitation, he let his hand rest cautiously on a warm nest of luxurious fur.  
   
It was very, very soft. Soon it began to purr, a gentle rumble that warmed him down to his bones. Dean opened one eye, and squinted at Castiel.  
   
“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll think about it.”  
   
As a reward, Castiel dropped his lips down to Dean’s hair in a soft, promising kiss.


End file.
